Keyframe

Celebrity Status

"All the work to impress, charming girls out of their dresses

And smiling pretty, well pretty will swallow you forever."

- "Celebrity Status," Marianas Trench (2009)

Alejandro

The early morning air is quiet and dull, and the only sound grounding me to my surroundings is the constant strike of my running shoes against the sidewalk. I used to run with my mom in Central Park before the sun came up, but, now that I'm in another state, I'm by myself for once. Jordan's a runner, too—we were in track together—but he prefers to jog in the evenings because he's such a morning grump. That's one habit his dad was never able to rip away from him.

Unlike usual, I actually don't mind being alone. For years now, morning runs have been my elixir, something that always stays the same no matter what the rest of the day has in store for me. My first therapist recommended it to me when I was fifteen, and, although I had no medication to back it up, it did help tie me down a little.

I should be exhausted, so much so that I could sleep for a day straight, but I'm not. New York Fashion Week ended the night before the last available move-in day, forcing my mom and I to fly a red-eye across the country to make it in time for check-in. Jordan's parents left him with some hired movers to do all the work, but Alejandra Molina would never stand for that. Even after a chain of sleepless nights in the busiest week of her year, she was by my side.

After my second time lapping the campus, she calls me just as I'm approaching my dorm. It's 7:36 AM now, the sun low in the sky, but it's almost 11:00 back home.

I walk the rest of the way to the building, listening to my mom complain about her jet lag, how quiet the condo is without me, and her idiot PA's inability to get her coffee order right. She's up and at 'em despite yet another night on a plane—an endless supply of manic energy is one of the many things we have in common. I may talk up a storm, but with my mom I can barely get a word in edgewise. I guess she's where I get it from.

I'm back in my room, getting ready to go take a shower and trying not to wake my roommate, before she finally says something I can respond to.

"Your appointment with your therapist—" Her voice is kind when she speaks to me, but I hear her pull the phone away from her ear to snap at a misbehaving intern before returning to me. "This afternoon, right?"

"Yeah." I pick up my shower caddy and my clothes, still trying to wrap my head around the idea of community bathrooms. "I'll tell you how it goes. She has great reviews, but...if I need to change, I'll let you know."

"Good. And your medication?"

I look at the nondescript box at the top of my closet—where the pills reside when I'm not frantically taking them behind my roommate's back. I'm trying not to be secretive about my illness, but I'm still not in a position where I'm comfortable blasting it to someone I barely know.

"Lo tengo [I have it.]"

"Bien [Good]," she sighs gently, obviously missing me. "Te extraño mucho, mi amor. [I miss you so much, my love.]"

"Te extraño también. Chao, mamí. [I miss you too. Bye, mamí]."

"Chao, mijo."

I hang up after she answers, tossing my phone on the bed and heading to the showers. Jordan's down the hall from me, the door to his room still closed, and I imagine I won't be hearing anything from him until the afternoon.

I shower for longer than usual, trying to wash New York City off of me just as much as the sweat. I fantasized about leaving everything I don't like about myself on the East Coast, but the pills in my room and my upcoming appointment with my new therapist are proof that that was never really possible.